


Bright-Eyed Laughing Maid

by Zdenka



Category: Der Ring des Nibelungen | The Ring of the Nibelung - Wagner
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 02:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/pseuds/Zdenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two significant meetings between a battle-god and his daughter.</p><p>
  <em>Brünnhilde was still a child when she met the Stranger for the first time.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright-Eyed Laughing Maid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [not_the_marimba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_the_marimba/gifts).



> Thanks to beta-reader Mithrigil and the #yuletide hippos.

Brünnhilde was still a child when she met the Stranger for the first time. That day, when their chores were done, Rossweisse challenged her to race to the outer fence. Brünnhilde beat her by a step; as she turned around to declare her win, she saw a gleam of mischief in her sister’s eye a moment before she was tackled to the ground. They wrestled together, laughing, each trying to pin the other. Brünnhilde could not say whether it was a sound or the sudden silence that made her look up. The birds in the trees overhead had all stopped singing at once, as when they saw a hawk’s shadow. “Sister, stop. We have a guest.” Both girls hastily scrambled to their feet, tugging their wrinkled tunics to rights.

An old man stood before them, or so he seemed. He was tall and grim and wrapped in a ragged cloak like a great grey storm-cloud. One eye was covered by a rough strip of cloth; the other shone brightly from beneath his broad-brimmed hat like a star between the clouds. He leaned on a tall staff as if weary, but when he spoke, his voice was not enfeebled by age, but rich and deep. “Skill and swiftness I see in the sisters; courageous in combat when womanhood comes.”

Brünnhilde and Rossweisse looked at each other. Brünnhilde half-closed her eyes to hear the stranger’s music. A rhythmic sound like far-off hoofbeats and a strong descending melody, heavy as a spear. When she opened her eyes again, she was surprised to see only an old man’s staff in his hand.

Rossweisse gathered herself and replied, hesitating a little: “Your name I know not, but stranger was never barred or banned from Budli’s bounty.”

The stranger smiled a little. “I know Budli well. Go and tell him that Herian is here.”

“You go, sister,” Brünnhilde said under her breath, “and I will escort our guest.” Rossweisse nodded and sped off toward the house, her hair streaming out behind her like a young horse’s mane.

Brünnhilde sensed danger in him, like the rumble of far-off thunder. Yet she was more curious than afraid. “Welcome to our house, stranger,” she said as she had been taught. “If you will come into the hall, there is meat and mead and a fire to warm yourself.”

The stranger regarded her intently with his single eye. “You are Brünnhilde,” he said at last, as if confirming a thought of his.

“I am. But how do you know me? You have said you know our foster-father, but I do not remember you visiting us here before.”

The grey stranger smiled. “You have never yet seen my face, but my thought went forth to bring me tidings, and many things also my memory tells me. From a high seat, much may be seen.”

She frowned. “A riddle?”

“If you like. Can you explain it?”

Brünnhilde reluctantly shook her head.

A ghost of a smile. “Someday you will understand fully.” His hand brushed over her hair, so lightly she was not sure she felt the touch. “Lead on, my child.”

Brünnhilde’s foster-father Budli rose to meet them as they entered the hall. He greeted Herian respectfully but with dignity; Brünnhilde wondered where and how they had met. Brünnhilde’s eight sisters were all assembled beside him, a testament to Rossweisse’s fleetness of foot and their foster-mother Sigurdrifa’s quiet authority. Brünnhilde fell into her accustomed place in line. “Who is he?” Ortlinde whispered. Brünnhilde shook her head. She did not want to miss a word that the stranger spoke.

Sigurdrifa filled a drinking-horn with mead and brought it to the stranger. “Health to you, Herian.” 

“Health to you, lady,” the stranger answered, “to your husband and kin and all your household.” He drank deeply. Brünnhilde was certain that he glanced at her and her sisters as he spoke.

Once seated, Herian talked softly with Budli and Sigurdrifa throughout the meal. To Brünnhilde’s disappointment, she was not close enough to hear what they said. So lost in thought was she that she almost forgot to eat, and Rossweisse had to poke her arm to shake her from her reverie.

At the end of the meal, there was a jangle of activity. Herian took up his staff and stepped aside. Brünnhilde knew suddenly that he was leaving, without staying the night. She hurried through the crowd, weaving between servants with piles of platters and mail-clad vassals whose bulk formed an unintentional barrier. Desperate at the loss of time, she slid under the table, wiggled to her feet, and leaped over a bench that blocked her way. In spite of her best efforts, Herian stepped from the hall before she could reach him.

Brünnhilde ran after him. “Wait,” she called breathlessly. Herian stopped, leaning calmly on his staff.

Brünnhilde fearlessly met his bright gaze. “Who are you?”

“Herian. Have I not told you already?”

“You came here for us,” she said with certainty. “Not to talk to my foster-father.”

An indulgent smile. “Perhaps you are right.”

“Tell me about the horses! Please.”

She had surprised him. “What horses?”

“When I look at you,” Brünnhilde said with certainty, “I hear the hoofbeats of horses riding over the clouds. And a song that is heavy like a spear.”

The stranger laughed aloud. “Do you, my child? Well, your mother was wise.” He stooped suddenly to kiss her forehead. “When you are old enough, Brünnhilde, you will have shield and spear, hauberk and helm – and a horse that can ride over the clouds.” And Brünnhilde, shining-eyed, heard far away a series of deep majestic brass chords that exalted her and tugged at her very soul.

She was still staring down the way he had gone when Helmwige ran to her side. “Has the guest gone, sister? Come and see what foster-father has given us!”

Brünnhilde laughingly tackled her sister, pinning her arms to her sides. “Tell me!”

Helmwige wriggled from her hold with the ease of long practice. “A shield for each of us. And swords – real ones!”

Brünnhilde gave a whoop of delight and ran to the house to claim her arms.

* * *

She heard that exalting brassy harmony again, the first time Wotan led them into battle. Brünnhilde sat astride her horse, armed and ready. The spear Wotan had given her was light in her hand. Grane snorted and shook his head, sensing her excitement.

Warfather leaped lightly to the saddle of his eight-legged steed, Sleipnir. He raised his spear. “Ride forth, Valkyries!” And ten steeds leaped forward with a sound like thunder, resounding over the clouds. Brünnhilde felt no fear; she had been preparing for this moment all her life. In her delight, she gave a high soaring call, and her sisters answered her.

In mere moments, they were over the battlefield. Wotan shook his spear over the host. “Fight, warriors! Die well and earn praise!”

The postures and moods of the men locked in combat changed indefinably. They struck more fiercely, fought more savagely. Their eyes shone as if drunk on mead, and they performed deeds not thought possible. Blood flowed freely, but they continued to fight on despite mortal wounds. Wotan laughed and urged them on.

Brünnhilde hovered over the battlefield. Which hero to choose? He must be worthy of Wotan, of Valhalla. A young warrior caught her eye. He was defending himself against a bearded giant twice his size. As she watched, his axe was wrenched from his hand by a mighty blow. He gripped his shield in both hands and braced himself. Brünnhilde gave a wordless shout of encouragement. Her breath seemed to go into him; he swung his shield madly like a weapon at his assailant. A cacophony of motion followed. Brünnhilde listened intently for their spirits’ music; each rang out in turn and then both faded into silence together. Brünnhilde shook her head. The young man was brave, but not yet a true hero. His music lacked the ringing note that she was seeking. She moved onward.

Brünnhilde fought as Wotan willed. She was no longer herself, but an extension of his arm. Her spear dripped red with blood, and she was hoarse from shouting. Without looking, she could hear the music of each of her sisters weaving through the battle, and the deeper thunderous notes of Wotan’s battle-rage. It formed a harmony, in which the shrieks of dying men, the crack of breaking bones, the dull thud of weapons against shield and flesh formed a part and were wholly fitting.

At the next pause in the battle, she found herself facing Wotan. His single eye shone with unearthly brilliance and his armor was streaked with blood. He smiled approvingly on her, and she felt herself glow with the silent praise. “Have you chosen a hero yet, Brünnhilde?”

“Not yet, father.”

He nodded brusquely. “Choose well.” And with a sweep of his storm-grey cloak, he vanished back into the melee.

Brünnhilde shouted her battle-cry again and listened for the echoed trumpet-call of valor. At last she found it and followed it to its source. She touched her chosen warrior on the shoulder. He turned to see her and his eyes widened with wonder. “Fight well and bravely,” she whispered to his ears alone, “and today you will drink with Wotan in Valhalla.”

When the battle was over, they each came before Wotan with a dead hero across their saddle. Now they were truly Valkyries, Choosers of the Slain. “Well done,” Wotan said with weary grim satisfaction, but his gaze lingered longest on Brünnhilde.

In every battle to come, Brünnhilde sought the bravest and most steadfast warriors, hearing the song of their valor echoing in her heart. Always she searched and could not find the highest valor, the most noble of all heroes; always there was a melody she sought that remained just out of her hearing. Until one day it greeted her, softly but clear and true, as she stood before Sieglinde the Wälsung and heard the spirit of the unborn warrior in her womb.

**Author's Note:**

> Budli is the name of Brünnhilde’s father in the _Völsunga saga_ ; I have used the name here for her foster-father. Sigurdrifa (Sigrdrifa) is another name for Brünnhilde. Herian or Herjan is one of Odin’s many names; it means “Warrior” or “Lord.”
> 
> “My thought went forth to bring me tidings, and many things also my memory tells me. From a high seat, much may be seen.” Thought and Memory (Huginn and Muninn) were Odin’s ravens, who brought him tidings. When Odin sat in his high seat (Hlidskjalf) in the realm of the gods, he could see what was happening in all the nine worlds.


End file.
